


little talks

by vanillarouge



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Boyfriends, First Kisses, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Magic Realism, Muteness, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillarouge/pseuds/vanillarouge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>dave and john and movies and kissing in the kitchen, and december and birthdays, and some other mundane, every-day-life events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	little talks

you tell dave, “wake up, sleepy head.”  when the movie is over.

the credits are flashing white and blue on the screen and he’s lying on your couch, nestled against the armrest like a newborn bird, washed in pale glowing light. you laugh softly when he huffs and turns around to face the back of the couch instead, frowning when his shades press against his nose in what you suppose is a painful way.

you walk two finger up his leg, like a little lilliputian climbing up gulliver’s body, slowly slowly —  trace the skin that shows under his ripped jeans, soft and a little hairy, and smile at the way he shivers. you grow bold and rub his knee now, fingers cold and feather-light, and he gasps like he’s been thrown into water, swats your hand away because he’s ridiculously ticklish. you think it’s adorable, so you laugh at him; tell him, “my dad is gonna be here any moment now.”

he slips his fingers under the shades you gave him last year, the ones you’ve seen on his face for the last three hundred and god knows how many days, rubs his palms over his eyes. he’s  all blonde-white hair sticking up in every direction and long, endless limbs.

you don’t fit in the couch like you used to, anymore, and you’re scared to think that you’ve just begun stretching.

with puberty you’ve become nothing more than all awkward angles and embarrassing voice changes and untameable hair; teeth that are growing far more quickly than you can keep up with. dave, though, is one of those special kids — blessed with genetics so sweet that he’s only getting prettier each time you see him.

you’re ashamed to admit this sort of makes you forget why it sucks to put up with his shit sometimes, but it’s just not fair that he knows all of your weaknesses; even when he gets stubborn like this. especially when he gets stubborn like this. curling in on himself once more and pulling the head of his hoodie over his face to type on his cell phone, squinting at the screen pressed close between his face and the couch.

“you’re impossible,” you tell him, and it sounds almost like honey or sweetheart, or _babe_. you don’t call him those, but they itch on your tongue sometimes, make you red on the face when you think about it.

your phone signals an incoming text message with the funny sound perry the platypus makes, and dave snorts, but you see him playing with the strings of his hoodie and dave never fumbles, not unless he’s nervous.

_bro’s not home_ , the bright red font on your phone says. _can i spend the night?_

he sits up and looks ahead, at the screen. your knees are touching. you press against him a little more, enjoying the heat that radiates off his body, if maybe a little guiltily. “yeah,” you say, biting your lip with a badly suppressed smile. “i don’t think my dad. would. mind.”

the telly ‘s light illuminates half of dave’s pale face and it flashes blue, black, blue in the dark room. he looks like a strange kind of ghost story, and it’s nice.

another movie is starting. the camera pans to a sobbing actress, her hands clutched around a swollen belly.

“it’s her brother’s,” you say, absently.

dave laughs.

he rests his head on your shoulder and you watch a man in a ski mask beat the crap out of a pregnant lady. you think it really shouldn't feel so romantic, but whatever.

your name is john egbert and it’s february, and you’re fourteen years old. dave’s your first boyfriend.

you haven’t kissed yet, though, but it’s okay, because he’s also been your best friend forever, your neighbour even longer. things have changed in the sense that now you allow yourself to acknowledge the butterflies in your stomach when you touch, the heat down your spine when he looks at you. it’s awkward in the best possible way, like being scared of rollercoasters, like getting sunburn, and the song _summer lovin’_ , like you’re getting to know him all over again. it’s new and exciting, but it’s also familiar and warm and comfortable.

 dave is also mute. that means he can’t speak.

;;

you remember a time when he was all sass and snark, a quick and proper answer delivered at the right time and at the right moment, to everything everyone had ever to tell him.

remember more clearly the way it sounded when he could laugh at you, when you sang together along the radio at the top of your lungs in his room, bouncing up and down on his bed because his brother is cool and never really minded. the texan accent he could never get rid of, not really, and also

the way he said your name, long and drawled, like it felt good rolling out of his tongue.

then the accident happened — the stupid chemical gases at the stupid school lab. it was only gasoline.

burnt lungs, burnt vocal chords, intubation for three weeks, an iron lung in the hospital for seven more, and a tracheostomy. the damage was cross from the burning of the fuels, blowing back into his face, inhalation at the worst possible moment, and a bad intubation.

petrochemical pneumonia did the trick.

dirk sued the teacher, sued the school, sued the hospital, everyone involved and their mothers. that’s how they paid the bills, the respiration therapist.

but no therapist could bring dave’s voice back, though. no matter how much effort they put into it.

it’s been three years. dave just stopped trying.

;;

he kisses you one lazy afternoon in his room, sitting on the floor with your backs against the side of his bed, when you are wasting  photographic film taking silly pictures of yourselves.

 your name is john egbert and it’s march, and you’re fourteen years old. dave’s your boyfriend of two months, and this is your first kiss.

he’s been pissed off all week, but right now he’s in a good mood — you know this because he’s laughing, all breathy inhales, and you don’t think he cares that he’s making a lot of noise. it makes something warm up inside you, something like pride and tenderness, like you deserve to hear him like this because it’s you who’s made him laugh.

you’re a lot more comfortable touching him now, the heavy nervousness in your stomach slowly melting into something like anxious infatuation, like you could be pressed against him like this forever and you wouldn’t mind, you wouldn’t mind at all.

your arms are around his waist, your head resting against his shoulder, cheeks almost touching. he’s got both hands on the huge camera dirk gave him for his last birthday, but he’s taken off his shades just for you, and up this close you’re able to see his freckles and his pale eyelashes, the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles.

he turns to look at you, like he wants your attention to sign you something, and your noses bump together. you giggle and he grins, and you can’t take your eyes off of his, just as he can’t take his off of yours, and you sigh, feeling sunny and fluttery, just so in love with this boy it almost hurts.

he leans in and you close your eyes, his breath tickling your mouth before you feel his lips against yours, moist and a little chapped.

 you put a hand on the side of his face, just a bit hesitantly, because dave’s like a bird, and you don’t want to scare him away. you feel him sigh, feel the warmth of his breath on your face, and it’s nice, except nice doesn’t begins to cover it. it’s soft and slow and a little wet, and it’s warm all inside your stomach, with a smidgen of heat and of nervous butterflies, just to keep things interesting.

after a moment you pull away, because you don’t know how to breath and kiss at the same time yet,  and he follows  your lips instinctively, planting one, two, three little pecks on your mouth before he catches himself and moves away, too,  red in the face.

you feel warm all over, become aware of all the places dave’s body is against your body. he smiles and you smile back but you’re suddenly shy, your eyes travelling up to meet his for a little moments before you feel the need to look away.

you go back to the picture taking, like nothing happened, and if your hands happen to brush a lot more than necessary, or if you can’t stop grinning for some strange reason, or if you’re suddenly shy when it comes to eye contact, you swear it’s all coincidental.

later dirk comes home with pizza, and eventually dave kisses you goodbye on the cheek, and you go home.

it’s going to be a while before it happens again, because you’re too shy and dave’s too self-conscious, but it doesn’t stops you from smiling alone at night, wishing it did.

;;

sometimes you wish you could give him your voice; lend it to him for an afternoon so he could blurt out all the thought that fill up that blonde little head of his, so he could sing and laugh and whisper in your ear and say your name like you remember he could, and maybe it’s a little selfish, and maybe those are nothing but wrong reasons,

maybe you’re a bad, bad, bad person

but you swear all you’ve ever wanted is for him to never ever be sad.

;;

you kiss him again two weeks and four days later, not that you’ve been counting, or anything.

he’s signing angrily at you, some crazy theory about your algebra teacher being a serial murderer and seriously, john, it makes sense, why didn’t annie what’s-her-face ever came back after she failed his class, and something about how if he could sing he’d make a whole damn musical based on _annie are you okay_ to make him confess, and you’re laughing your ass off, indulging him because dirk said his asl is getting rusty, so you’ve refused to acknowledge his texts when you’re both in the same room.

he rolls his eyes with an exaggerated head motion when you sign him back, tell him that maybe he should try interpretative dancing.

he answers, _wow, rude_ , and proceeds to pretend he’s offended, so you take his hands in yours and press your lips to his, except he laughs and his teeth collision against your mouth and it hurts like a fucker.

you’d laugh at  the way his eyes widen and he mouths a quick _sorry!_ except instead you stay very still because his hands are slipping out of your grasp to bring them to your face instead, unsure and hasty, before he leans in with all the carefulness in the world and starts kissing it better.

your name is john egbert and it’s march, and you’re fourteen years old.

you love this boy so much you’re worried you could die.

it’s a lot like the first, except now your arms have wrapped themselves around his waist and you’re not sure how that happened, all you’re sure of right now is that he tastes like skin and cinnamon and chapstick, and that he’s oh so warm.

you move your mouth against his with only your imagination as reference, try to copy the things he does that feel good for you, try to make him feel good in return. it’s slow and it’s still experimental, and maybe it’s got more teeth than it’s necessary, and there aren’t fireworks or electricity, but your whole world reduces to dave, dave and his nose, cold against the side of yours, dave and his hands, rough at the edges, gently tracing your face, dave’s feet between yours,  dave’s breath, dave’s heath, dave’s mouth parted just slightly, just right so yours will fit against his.

this time when you pull apart it’s with a gentle _pop_ , his lower lip trapped between yours as you suck it, slightly, the tip of his fingers brushing the hairs on the back of your neck, making them stand on end.

you stand there in the kitchen for the longest of moments with your foreheads touching, quiet quiet, holding him and being held by him. there are tingles all over your body, heath gently pooling in your stomach, a mix of kind of disquieting but also incredibly pleasant.

he hums against the corner of your mouth, and you enjoy the vibrations of his voice against your skin.

his voice.

his—

“ _dave!_ ” you say, your eyes opening wide, reflecting his startled face, like a pale ghost. or you try to say. the air travels down your throat and comes back up and you move your lips and tongue in patters you know but can’t explain, and nothing comes out except a breath.

you jump back, look at him. his eyes are so wide they match yours, and you stare at each other,  your hands pressed against your mouth; his lips falling open.

he recovers first, looking like he wants to laugh from the shock, and tentatively whispers, “john…?” and you hear his voice, hoarse and raspy like he has a cold and he’s screamed for days on end and, but it’s there, barely audible.

he really laughs this time, a low frightened sound, and his hands find their way to your face again, his eyes searching your face. he pulls your own hands from your mouth, his lips trembling, like he’s trying to say something but he’s forgotten how to.

you try, “ _i think you stole_ — ” but stop because no sound is coming out. dave knows how to read lips, though, so he finishes for you.

whispers, “my voice.”

it’s so eerie and impossible, and romantic and tragic and bizarre and heart-breaking and terrible and horrible and wonderful that you laugh, and your laughter is nothing but silent breathy sounds.

dave looks at you like you’re something precious, like you’re something breakable, his eyes still wide and shocked and filled with so much love it hurts.

he laughs with you, more terrified than anything, and it sounds just so low and lovely and exquisite and enticing that you don’t care you’ve lost your voice, you don’t care that this doesn’t make sense, you don’t care about nothing but dave and the sounds his lungs make when he’s in love.

so you lean in and kiss him again, out of trepidation and overwhelm, and the sound he makes when your mouth meets his do the most unexpected things to your stomach and your legs, and you have to walk back to lean against the counter because you think you might fall down if you don’t, and you pull him with you so his lips won’t leave yours, your arms around his neck.

you pull apart and your kisses are nowhere near perfect but you think you’re going to die if it feels like this every time, like home and like warmth, like you belong together.

you’re trembling all over,  gasping a little, and your knees feel like jelly, like you might collapse any moment. you breath, “oh my god.” and his eyes widen.

“ _what the hell was_ —” but it’s his turn to stop, because nothing comes out. he looks surprised and relieved and disappointed, and you’re scared that your face might be the same.

he stole your voice with a kiss, and you took it back with another.

the sound of your dad’s car parking in the driveway makes you both jump away from each other, and you rub the sleeve of your shirt over your mouth, embarrassment and worry settling in your chest because even though dave’s done the same his lips are red and swollen and it’s pretty obvious what you’ve been up to.

you’re in the living room by the time your dad walks in, your homework conveniently laying all over the coffee table where it’s laid forgotten all afternoon.

;;

your name is john egbert and it’s december, and you’re still fourteen years old, but it’s dave’s fifteenth birthday.

your dad’s made cake and you’ve eaten it laying on a comforter spread over the tall grass on your backyard, under a tree, with dave and jade and rose, and you laugh and play stupid child games like tag and blind man's bluff and truth or dare and later, when it gets darker and colder, rose and jade both kiss dave’s cheeks goodbye and head home, holding hands.

your dad lets you spend the night at his house, but he doesn’t know dirk doesn’t care about stupid rules like “the door of your room must be open at all times” your dad insists on embarrassing you with, and the moment dirk passes out like the dead on the couch, dave locks the door closed and jumps into his bed with you, and you’re making out like it’s the end of the world.

by the time he pulls apart your back is pressed against the mattress, and you’re not sure how it happened, but he’s on top of you and his bed is permanently unmade, but his sheets are clean and they smell like old laundry detergent and boyish body spray. he says with his sore-throat voice, “time for the birthday boy’s special gift.”

you laugh and punch his arm, sign to him that _i don’t swallow_. it’s meant to be a joke, of course,  you haven’t done anything that could even be considered second base except a lot of tongue and a little groping, but you don’t miss the way his breath hitches, the way his eyes glance at your lips for a second before meeting your eyes again.

the laughter doesn’t really fades because you’re nervous, but there is something serious behind the way you giggle breathily as you run the back of your fingers down his face, slowly slowly, feel a stir inside you.

(lately the kissing has stopped being enough, and you live with a permanent frustration for more, more, more of dave, and it should scare you that you want someone this badly, but it doesn’t — it only feels natural and so, so _right_.)

you pull him down by the shoulders with a renewed urge to feel him against you, his body over your body, his lips on your lips.

there’s a heat spreading inside you, electricity that burned your fingertips like sparks now free to travel between the two of you, your hands finding their way to his back under his shirt, his mouth sucking a bruise on your neck, and you’re the one making noise now, this trade once foreign now a natural constant between the two of you, and you thank him by running your fingers through his hair and whispering little words of encouragement that sound a lot like _dave_ and _yes_ and _more_.

his hands, cold and shaking because he’s just as inexperienced as you are, find the hem of your shirt and he pushes up, your arms untangling from his body to make it easier for him to slide it over your head, and you’re both all awkward limbs still, you haven’t finished growing up yet, won’t for some other years yet, but you want him so much that you’re not afraid to fuck this up because you know he wants you back just as badly.

you stop him when he goes in for another kiss, just a little, breathless second. you run your palms over his chest, inside his shirt, feeling the muscles there tense and relax and the tick-tick-tacking of his heart, and you tell him, your eyes serious and soft, “happy birthday.” dave grins and lets out a laugh between his teeth and you punch his arm again, embarrassed. “i mean it, you jerk.”

“ _okay_ ,” he mouths, silently silently, kissing your nose breathlessly.

then your cheek

 your chin—

you lose track of where your voice has gone because you become a symphony of hasty breathing, of names being called with desperation and moaning broken by kisses that not always fall on your lips, but still make you ache all over, and it’s not perfect, it is not perfect at all, but

dave looks so pretty like this, all quick breaths and your name falling from his lips like it’s a lifeline, his fingers tangling in the sheets, in your hair, pulling a bit, and the movement of his hips, the sounds that he starts and you end, and

“ _john—_ ,” he breathes, throwing his head back, his neck arching, his body pressing against your body. you hold his jaw and kiss him messy and deep, his fingers digging into your back, tugging roughly at your hair when you press open mouthed kisses at his shoulder and his neck and his jaw and his mouth.

you have to keep the voice you share a low breathy whisper between the two of you because dave’s brother is still downstairs, and it’s a little awkward, and you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve elbowed him already, and you’ve both so lost and confused and you didn’t thought you’d be this sentimental about something like losing your virginity, but it feels so good to have dave want you like this, need you like this, it feels so good to make him feel good and

;;

you share a voice, but you’re pretty sure you might as well share a heart, too.

;;

“i think i’m in love with you,” you tell him the morning after, gravelly, nestled against his side inside the chill covers, sharing body heath the way it’s supposed to. “as in, in love _love_. as in kids and white picket fence. is that weird?”

he smiles against your forehead and you feel his knuckles tracing the bones on your spine like a feather.

“i know you want to sass me up, dave,” you say, rolling your eyes. his bed is against the wall and you look up at the sky, blue and cloudless, and there are birds on the electric lines. you try to whistle their song back, but you’ve never been able to, not really. “be my guest.”

he makes a show of brushing your hair out of your face and looking deeply into your eyes before kissing you, and you snort and lick his lips sloppily even though they’re kind of dry and gross.

he takes a few deep breaths and says with his sore throat voice, “yes john it’s fucking weird.” you kick him under the covers, but he traps your leg between his and doesn’t let go.  “you’re not even fifteen, jesus christ.”

“ _you’re such a douche_ ,” you mouth at him, and you try to kiss him but he keeps pushing you away with a stupid grin on his face.

he laughs and the sound is wonderful, starts deep in his chest like a low vibration before bubbling out of his lips like he doesn’t knows sadness. after a moment he lets you wrestle him on his back and you sit on top of him triumphantly, pinning his wrists to the bed, the covers sliding down your body.

“my fair maiden eyes,” he purrs, but the way his eyes roam down  your body make you self-conscious and red in the face and kind of flattered and, maybe, like, pretty. attractive. just a little. “put some clothes on, i think i might fain _hmph_ —”

“you weren’t saying that last night.”

you let his wrists go, and he signs you that _man, i was so drunk, i can’t remember a single thing._ and with a little grin, _was it good_?

you grin back at him, your nose dangerously close to his. “so-so.”

when he pulls you down by the hair to kiss you it’s entirely because you let him. you know he wants to say something, so you extend the kiss for as long as you can, until he stops moving and huffs with frustration.

“you’ve got some damn high standards. so-so, and it was with the guy you were just declaring was the one and shit.”

you want to say something stupid, really, that line is open to so many immature jokes, but you’re straddling his stomach and you’re both still sleepy and sated and happy with a warm sort of afterglow,  and the air is chill around you, and dave just looks so pretty like this, with his eyes barely open, bruises on his neck dark against his pale skin and freckles, his hair sticking up in every direction, head rolled to the side, all relaxed in an unconscious sort of trust.

with your hands you say, _i love you_. and with his hands he says he loves you back.

dirk leaves early and the house is empty for the two of you only, and you kiss dave for a long while, wondering how you got yourself a boy like this, how in the whole world it was dave who you fell in love with, how in the whole world it was dave and dave exactly who loved you back.

later you wrap yourself in his sheets and eat leftover pancakes and kiss some more until you’ve lost track of where your voice is, if it’s still with you and dave just makes you breathless or if it’s with him and he’s hiding it away from you, playfully, playfully, behind the most brightest smile you’ve ever seen.

your name is still john egbert and it’s still december, and you’re still fourteen years old, and you think it doesn’t matter, not really, when some things are just better left unsaid.

**Author's Note:**

> imagine when they're arguing, tho.
> 
> (comments are really nice guys c: )


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